


Gamesmanship

by touchstoneaf



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics 1998), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, F/M, I love underwear fetish Spike, I will die on that hill, don't@me, i will not be judged, it's a predator thing, this is just plain schmoop, underwear fetish Spike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstoneaf/pseuds/touchstoneaf
Summary: Once upon a time it was a bit of a fetish.  Now, it's really more in the nature of a game.Except, sometimes, he goes overboard.  And when he does, she lets him know about it.And how.  When certain vampires push the game too far, they pay the price.  Willingly.(After all, there are rewards.)
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Kudos: 23





	Gamesmanship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OffYourBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/gifts).



> **Notes:** This is the last of my three fluffy pseudo-in-series pieces, in chronological order.  
> The original draft of this was sort of dashed off one night as a gift for OffYourBird, as a pick-me-up, and concludes this trio of random bits of fluffery that sort of loosely fit into the "Souls In Bondage" series, if you want them to, but which really don't have to at all. Like the previous two bits of fluff I've lately posted, it can thus be considered to include something like a vague spoiler in its setting, if you squint. Or not. That's up to you. (It is also absolutely and completely unnecessary to have read even one jot of that series to appreciate this one-shot.)
> 
> Like the last offering, I'd been holding off on posting this one out of concerns with it being vaguely spoilery (though not really a lot), but meh. Fluff wins out. Call it the fluff trilogy. 
> 
> **Formatting Note:** For anyone who’s never read me before, I do a weird thing. Or, at least, it’s weird nowadays. I use an old fanfic convention from long ago because I'm ancient, and we didn't used to have access to italics in the days when I used to fic. Can't break the habit now, I'm just too old and it looks weird for me without it. Character thoughts look like this in my stories: /Blah blah blah./
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** All characters property of Joss Whedon, damn his brilliant, confusing soul. And Mutant Enemy. And apparently some people at, I guess, Fox, now? (Who can even keep track anymore. I’m still half-stuck in the WB/CW/UPN confusion.) All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, yadda and blah. (OCs if any are MINE, ALL MINE!) I am in no way associated with Joss, Mutant Enemy, UPN, Fox, or any other media franchise. I intend no infringement. I intend sexy shenanigans and JUSTICE FOR SPUFFY!
> 
>  **Pairing(s):** I mean, SPUFFY, DUH!!! (This one’s established relationship-style.)
> 
>  **Rating:** PG-13 again. I’m starting to think I might make a name for myself with this fluff stuff.
> 
>  **Author’s Note / Dedication:** This one was written several months back specifically as a gift for OffYourBird, because she’s the awesomest. You rock my socks, OYB.

“Damn vampire.”

Buffy rummaged through her underwear drawer… if rummaged was even the right word for it, when there was basically nothing in it but a few bras and a sock or two. Felt blindly around the back corners. And came up with exactly one pair of undies. An old, skanky, worn-out pair of granny panties that were specifically reserved for that time of the month. “You have got to be _kidding_ me.”

Grumbling irritated commentary under her breath, she reluctantly pulled the old things on, tugged on her jeans after them. And commenced operation ‘find the underwear’.

It was a time-honored bi-monthly tradition at this point in the Buffy-Spike household; one Spike had revived promptly when they had combined finances. Which she understood, from his perspective. He had been an exceedingly good boy all the way through most of their first ill-fated affair, considering his proclivities. Compassionate, even, once she had first blown up at him over the whole, _“I’m fucking broke enough, dammit, I can’t keep replacing all the underwear you keep tearing up and stealing!”_ deal.

She didn’t think she had ever seen him look so damned contrite, and he’d promptly replaced all the pairs he’d damaged in the throes (he had remarkably good taste too, and not all that shockingly, knew her size). And, even more shockingly… she had _let_ him. She hadn’t even made any snide comments about his ‘filthy’ lingerie obsession, or demanded to know if he had chosen the ones he had because he had thought of how they would look on her. Strangely, he seemed to have aimed for ones he had thought she would find comfortable more than ‘sexy, lacy shit a vamp would like to see on the Slayer’, which either was an even greater act of contrition, indicating he was putting her needs first (something she hadn’t even wanted to think about at the time) or he had found her own taste more attractive than raw titillation (which had been even more frightening in its own way). 

Despite all the possible ramifications, Buffy had experienced a moment of something like adult clarity in that once instance, and had made an enormous effort to be slightly less of a bitch than usual. She had not only accepted the damn things with something like grace, she had forced herself not to ask where the money had come from, or whether he had, god forbid, stolen the undies. It had taken some serious restraint, considering the fact that back then it had put her back up when he had bought or given her, well anything. But, okay; to her mind, he had _owed_ her that much!

He had also, very quietly, laundered her remaining extant purloined underthings and dropped them off at her house. Though he had, she kind of thought, kept back maybe one or two pairs for personal consumption. But considering the ones he had replaced, and not being able to keep track of which ones had suffered battle-damage, she had had to kind of just assume, or write them off and move on. She had even had a brief epiphany (though it was one that had been immediately lost in the morass) and told herself that allowing him to make reparation was necessary and significant and… And more importantly, that no one in her inner circle could ever possibly find out that she had let ‘Spike-the-evil-vampire (who-was-secretly-kind-of-disappointingly-crappy-at-being-evil)’ basically buy her an all new underwear wardrobe because he had _done things_ to most of her extant one. (Which was, and remained, fucking evil. Just… low-grade evil. Nothing to write home about.)

After all, it wasn’t like the rest of her friends had been privy to the catalogue of her previously-existing lingerie, so she had been safe enough, right?

Nowadays, though… Well. Spike had kind of overly taken advantage of their combined household status to rekindle the underwear-theft thing, and had promptly and gleefully gone way overboard with it, made it into a kind of a sport or something. The prick. /But you’d think after five years he’d learn to leave me, like, a working armory of at least three acceptable pairs! I mean, I think he kind of likes seeing them on me _occasionally!_ /

The normal spots were all a bust. The backs of his drawers; no such luck. Behind the boxes in the closet that held all those stupidly expensive spare dusters he hoarded like they were Italian gold; no dice. That one little hidey-hole he had used that one time under that one loose floorboard, with the empty shoebox and the spiders. Seemed he had learned a thing or two after he’d been cursed out for that one. 

Talk about going rounds. 

It seemed like you could put the soul in the vampire, but you couldn’t take the vampire out of the… well, underwear hoarding. Or something. Idiot doofus. 

Throwing up her hands, Buffy sat down on the bed and gave it some serious thought. Either she was going to have to pummel it out of him when he got home, MMA style (which he would just treat as a reward, because _Spike_ , and anyway that was ineffective anymore because she never actually pummeled him per se even when she could catch him; which was seldom because holy shit he was fast, now), or she would actually have to ask (which was code for beg) him to give her undies back. Which was completely unacceptable, and against the rules of the stupid game, and she was so not going to stoop that low.

Irritation filling her once more with energy, Buffy shot to her feet and considered other possible hiding places. /He wouldn’t put ‘em down by the washer. He wouldn’t _do_ that to me. _Would_ he?/ He had _better_ not have been that stupid. That thing was a public laundry, shared between themselves and two other tenants in the building. No _way_ he would be that dumb. 

Writing off that possibility, Buffy stuck with their own private spaces. And kept on striking out.

Hence the reason her vamp beau found her bent over the one vent cover in the living room, up to her shoulder behind the seat-thing, fondling dust-bunnies in search of some sort of container and so wrapped up in her search that she only felt his approach at the last minute. “You are so dead,” she told the prickles on the back of her neck and running, pleasantly familiar, up her spine.

By the casually smug sound of his voice, he was leaning against the post that separated the living room from the kitchen, about two feet behind her, enjoying the view. “Took you long enough.” She heard the click of his tongue unrolling behind his teeth, the sadistic bastard. “‘F you would’ve started a few days ago, you wouldn’t be wearing…” He leaned forward a little, to the tune of her short hairs doing their standard little goose-bumpy dance, and tugged slightly at the waistband of her jeans. “Christ, those are awful, pet. Even for monthly knickers. I should go buy you summat nicer…”

Emerging from the fruitless vent hole, she slapped his hand away and straightened, glaring. “If you’d just stop stealing every other pair, I wouldn’t have to wear these godawful things, you jerk.”

Of course, he was smirking, super proud of himself. Dick. “Why the bloody hell would I stop? Just thinkin’ of you goin’ about starkers under there…” His eyes turned predictably hot.

“And here I thought you had a soul.”

The grin widened. “It comes and goes.”

“Obviously,” she snapped, and swiveled away to march off in search of another possible spot for his stupid lingerie cache. 

He followed her lazily, watching her efforts with appreciation. “Still think it’s a waste of soddin’ time,” he called after her.

“You would.” It was an old, worn-out argument.

He thought underwear were pointless. Got in the way of quick access and blahdy-blah. Which was fine for him, but they were built differently, for one. Asshole. 

He watched her search for another ten futile minutes before she whirled, glaring and pissed that she had to negotiate. “Okay, what did you do, _sell_ them? Seriously, they have to be accessible, because I _know_ you, and you wouldn’t let ‘em get out of your sight…”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Slayer.” Then the smirk, of course, made its asinine reappearance on his idiotically-attractive mug. “Do you give?”

She was going to kill him. She was actually going to… “If I stake you in your sleep, you’ll give the stupid things back…”

“Can’t get information from a pile of dust.”

Ass. “No sex for a week?”

He snorted derisively. “Last time you tried that, you broke in three days.”

He had a point. She was always the one who broke. Bastard. The only way she could make good on a threat like that was to move out or something. Sometimes he fried her circuits enough just _standing_ there that she went into overload and attacked him, and… “I hate you.” 

The old words came out now with zero heat, were met with zero hurt. “You hate losing,” he answered calmly, amused. “Just give, Slayer, or you’ll be searching all night.” The grin made its reappearance, but not all smirky this time. This time it was that boyish one that made his eyes light up. “Though… that’s not such a terrible idea, come to that. Bein’ as it’s kind of the point, you goin’ without for a bit.” The delight in his face spread like a plague, and okay. She had seldom seen him look so stupidly pleased about an idea. “Can think of worse ways to spend a day or two, till you get over being stubborn…”

She stared at him, thrown. “Is _that_ the point of this dumbass game of yours?”

His expression never shifted, which was the Spike-equivalent of a duh-face. 

Holy crap, she was slow. How had she never picked up on that? “God, you’re an idiot. Just a huge, giant, thirteen-year-old idiot…”

“Never got to play like this when I was thirteen. Had to come out sometime.”

With a groan, Buffy sat down on the couch and cradled her face in her hands. “So, what? You’re going to hold my underwear hostage for how many days?”

Silence, till finally she cracked her fingers to peer through. Saw him crouched before her, holding up three of his. _“Three?”_ she demanded, incredulous. “Three _days?”_

If possible, his grin broadened even further. Playful, merciless bastard. “Three days sounds a nice, round number, yeah. You walkin’ around all _aware_ , things rubbin’ on your bits, me watchin’ you, knowin’, you knowin’…”

Buffy shook her head into her hands. “If you think this is going to get you more sex, you’re nuts. It might get you a punch in the nose, if you hover around behind me when I’m all irritated by my jeans and pissed off because you have my underwear in some spider-covered box somewhere again…”

His voice went candid. “Give me some credit, Buffy. Learned my lesson there, yeah? They’re safe, sound, and dry.” The smug amusement came back. “And any road, you can try to hit me, but we both know you’ll probably miss these days…”

Her hands dropped from her face, and she glared at him. “You’re only so fast now because Slayer blood. Which you won’t be getting any as long as you’re holding my undies hostage, you jerk.”

He narrowed his eyes at her till they were little blue triangles. “That was terrible English, Summers.”

She scoffed at him, irritated. “Since when is that new?” Leaning back, she raked her hair out of her face with her fingers and wondered how to recover the situation. He had completely changed the terms of the game. Now it wasn’t about begging to get her stupid underwear back. Now he wanted to _keep_ them, and… 

/Negotiation, or bribery, or…/

“You know what?” she demanded, coming to her feet, “this is stupid.” It burst out of her on a flood of frustration, her emotions hitting the brick wall of pride. “Do you know _why_ I have eight million pairs of underwear, you complete dick?”

Agape at the sudden change of speed, Spike blinked at her from his crouch. “Because you like having a lot of choices? And because I take them a lot?”

/Oh my God; for an incredibly smart guy you’re so _stupid!_ / “No,” she informed her idiot vampire flatly. “It’s because I can’t go anywhere or do anything anywhere _near_ you without being turned on like every _second_ , and it’s been like that since we started. Which you _know_ , because you can _tell_ , so don’t pretend you don’t. You don’t need the claim to know it; and you know it started before that. You know it’s even worse now. And you’re talking about watching me and being all turned on, which means I’ll be feeling you and I’ll be…” 

“Buffy,” he croaked, clearly frightened by her sudden vehemence.

/No. You’re gonna hear me out!/ “I _have_ to have underwear on, you asshole, because if I don’t, I go through pants like there’s no tomorrow, and underwear may be expensive, but it’s a lot easier to afford a whole damn wardrobe of panties and keep them washed than have a whole _store_ full of jeans in the house…” He was gaping at her now, amazed, but her dander was up, and she was so not finished with this rant. “And I’d rather do one load of seventeen pairs of underwear a week than buy seventeen pairs of pants and wash three or four loads of those… or have my thighs wet all the time, because we both know you like it that I wear skirts again now I’m not working constantly on a hellmouth anymore…”

“Bloody hell, Buffy, I…”

“Having a zillion pairs of underwear is a damn _investment_ as long as I’m with you! And you’re making it hard as hell to get by when you keep doing this! I know it started out as a game, and I get that, but unless you’re planning on buying me eight million pairs of pants—and never seeing me in a skirt _again!_ —I suggest you give it a rest.”

Out of steam, Buffy trailed off and waited, glaring. And was surprised when, without a single word Spike rose, turned, and disappeared into the bathroom. She heard a familiar _wrench-whine_ noise (the cupboard that hid the water-heater), a dull _clang_ as he rummaged around behind it, and then he was back, cradling the large shoebox that had once held his new Docs. “Sorry, pet,” he told her quietly. “I’ll be back; just have to head down to the laundry…”

Aw… he was going to wash them for her. Which she supposed was fair, since he tended to ‘nick’ them when they had already been worn. And she was going to have to wear these ones for a little longer, but that was life. “There’s some laundry in the bedroom, too,” she told him pointedly. 

“Oh. Sure.” Rerouting, he headed in to grab that, vanished downstairs. 

She was just rooting around in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to make herself for (a really late) breakfast when he reappeared, still looking a bit sheepish, and saw her with the carton out. “Oi! Don’t do it, Buffy! Don’t take it out on the eggs! It’s my fault!” 

“Funny,” she informed him dryly, but relented and let him have at it. They both knew she loved it that he would cook for her; loved the paradoxical weirdness of the fact that her undead, blood-drinking lover actually made a few very excellent human dishes. The thing was, her guy was super into his creature-comforts, and more than that, he was a total epicurean. If he tasted a meal that he really liked over the course of his years and travels and for some reason couldn’t have it again, he would learn how to make it himself so that he could enjoy it at his leisure. After all, he had unlimited time to apply to experimentation with flavors and seasoning and all that crap.

For most of their time together Buffy had had neither the patience nor the talent for that kind of thing, and had stuck mostly with ‘is it not-raw, does it have enough vitamins in it to keep me from starving’. Spike had found her cooking skills deeply offensive when they had first come together, to the point that in the beginning he had tended to shoo her out of the kitchen as often as possible. If she wanted something he couldn’t make, they ate out or got ‘take away’, as he liked to call it, but if at all possible he had done his damnedest to keep her away from the stove. Now, in the last year since her official retirement had permitted her the time to actually focus on such once-frivolous accomplishments, she had insisted she had wanted to conquer the kitchen. “I don’t want it to beat me,” she’d informed him bleakly.

Relenting, he’d moved over to share his domain. And, amazingly, she’d found she could manage better than a few hazy memories of a couple vaguely-decent Thanksgivings gave her credit for. 

After her first attempts to cook a few things with him had actually come out well enough to be judged edible, they had evolved the task into regular cooking-together evenings… but he still liked to make breakfast for her. It was sweet, and she enjoyed the ritual of it. 

Once in command of the kitchen he moved with ease and confidence, pulling down bowl and whisk, cracking eggs one-handed (by some complicated magic he never left shells in when he did that. Buffy had tried it once and the whole damn thing had become a crumpled mess in her hand, and how the fuck did he do it? They had nearly equal strength. It baffled her). Did a little whipping, the muscles in his shoulders flexing. And then, with a self-conscious little shrug, “Warm in here.” Stripped off his shirt, tossed it aside to keep on working in just his jeans.

Okay, now that was an apology made utterly for her benefit, built on a complete and total fiction. He didn’t even have the stove on yet, not to mention that he hadn’t even sweated in Hell-A. They both knew—and he was counting on their both knowing—that he was cooking half-naked so she could watch him… because they both knew she enjoyed watching him; a way to voluntarily turn the tables. His little attempt at making her into his personal mental eye-candy had gone overboard and he regretted it… so he was making himself the subject of her gaze for this little stretch of time in a sort of direct reparation. 

It was an act of service, made at the risk of grease-spatters, because he felt bad and he loved her. And she would take topless service-Spike any day. “Mmm,” she answered, to let him know she appreciated the gesture; all the way down to the little flutters in her stomach and that ache in the back of her throat she got when he moved, because he was both so hot she wanted to lick him from head to toe, and so beautiful she almost wanted to cry sometimes, that she still had him. That he wasn’t gone. “Glad it’s a warm day.” It wasn’t. It was February, but you know. 

He didn’t answer, just went on with his self-appointed task, and _god_ he looked good. He was hugging the bowl to his side now, whisking with probably excessive attention, every muscle in his back and arms standing out… And this is the sort of thing where living with Spike made having underwear not only infinitely preferable but pretty much necessary. 

She heard him inhale, and you know what? Whatever. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Gets me out of a lot of jams.”

“Very true.”

She remained silent throughout the rest of the show, mesmerized as always by every twist of his torso, the way his muscles slid smoothly under his skin as he reached for things or employed the spatula. Within about twenty minutes he approached her holding a plate. Smiling, she tilted her head slightly. “Thanks for the added scenery.”

He offered her a little half-smile in reply as he slid the plate onto the table in front of her. “Eat up, Love. I’ve got to go put that lot in the dryer.”

Buffy frowned at the (as always, really lovely) omelet. “What about you?”

“Got lucky last night with some starry-eyed Reform groupie. I’m all good, pet.”

“Okay.” 

An hour later he was puttering around in the bedroom, so she went in to investigate. And found he was actually folding her undies and putting them away, which was a little excessive. “William, for God’s sake, you don’t have to…”

“Hush.” He went on carefully folding, not looking at her, and it was just too much. His quiet reparation jags drove her bonkers sometimes. 

“Spike, quit it.” Grabbing his face, she tugged him over, stared him directly in his ridiculous blue eyes. “I can fold my own underwear.”

“I’m almost done. Got no problems finishing up; an’ anyway, I owe it to you, makin’ you wear those hideous knickers…”

She smiled into his eyes. “Then take them off of me and we’ll call it even.”

Arrested, he blinked at her once like an owl, and then the boyish grin was back, slow and growing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you idiot.”

“Now?”

“Now would be a good time.” 

“Right, then.” The grin was turning very rapidly into one of those expressions of his that involved studying and tongue-rolling as he pondered his best approach. And then his gaze lifted to meet hers. “Buffy, I haven’t destroyed even one pair of your knickers in seven years, but you think maybe, in this one special case…”

Rolling her eyes, Buffy sighed. Oh well. It was for a good cause. “I think I can let it slide this time. Since you were so nice and gave all the rest back.”

You’d think he was a kid on Christmas as he set to unwrapping her. He might be kind of predictable when it came to her underwear, but he more than made up for it with sheer imagination once he got them off, with how he got her off. Repeatedly. And for the record? Remove-the-underwear was a _much_ better game than hide-the-underwear. 

After which, there were, yanno, _other_ games. 

Loads, as Spike would say, of _way_ better games.

**FIN  
  
  
  
  
  
  
** _(Alrighty-then. Enough of this schmoopy, smooshy stuff! *puts on grumpy face* I'll be back to my regularly-scheduled angst tomorrow.)_


End file.
